This is My Body, This is My Blood

The Elephant in the Locker Room

When I was nine, I couldn't wait to be ten so I could cross the street without holding my older sister's hand. At ten, I longed for twelve, the age when Mom bought her daughters their first bra whether they needed it or not (I didn't). By the time I reached twelve, I wanted to fast-forward to fourteen, the age my dad would let me drive our Volkswagen Bus to church on Sundays while he crammed for his sermon. I'd no sooner backed out of the driveway when I started wishing for sixteen, so I could date boys.

The years that followed are a bit of a blur now, but somewhere around thirty, the desire to apply the brakes on time edged in, much like that first gray hair or crease at the corner of one's eyes. Like many other women my age,I joined the gym, in an effort to stay trim after having given birth to three children. I knew I couldn't slow down the aging process any more than I could speed it up as a child, but perhaps I could add a stroke or two of grace to time's hand. Besides, when you live where the winters are as long and cold as they are in Michigan, working out was a way to keep warm while keeping the winter fat at bay.

It was a typically gray, January morning in my West Michigan town when I finished a circuit training class I'd signed up for to keep the blood from freezing in my veins. I headed for the locker room where groups of women stood around in various stages of undress. As I rounded the second row of lockers, I caught sight of what looked like a tissue on the floor in front of the benches. The closer I got, the more apparent it became that it wasn't a Kleenex; but a tampon. An obviously used tampon, and it was right next to my locker.

I looked around the room to see if anyone else had noticed but everyone seemed to be very busy chatting, blow-drying, or putting on make-up before heading back tout in the cold. I surreptitiously padded over to my locker, removed my clean clothes, and sat down at the far end of the bench lest anyone think the bloody cotton was mine. As I untied my sneakers, the collective sense of shame and embarrassment was palpable.

And that's when our heroine, okay my heroine, rounded the corner. A stout woman with sculpted calves and wearing a baggy tee shirt over shorts rather than designer jog-bra and spandex; she marched into the locker room and immediately spied the object of our shame. She looked at it, then at all of us, before grabbing a paper towel from the wall dispenser and scooping the thing up and tossing it in the trash..

"For crying out loud, we all know what it is and where it came from, why are you all pretending it doesn't exist?"

Nobody said a word, just stared at the floor or at each other, awkwardly, until the woman shook her head and yanked open her locker, mumbling. She pulled off her sweaty clothes and walked buck naked--all 175 or so muscled pounds of her--to the showers. The other women eventually recovered and went back to their gossip or talking about their children or pot roast recipes, but I was stricken with a sudden realization that I no longer yearned to reach a certain age, but to arrive at a point in life when I could master that kind of honesty and lack of concern for what others might think of me. To act with courage instead of self-monitoring. To call attention to the elephants in our world with grace and conviction.

Nearly two decades later, I rounded the corner near my home and spotted a young man hitting his dog because it wouldn't pull him on his skateboard. Before I had time to think about the risk, I turned my car around and rolled down the window.

"You put another hand on that poor dog and I'm calling animal services! It's a pet, not your slave!"

The kid looked at me and shrugged. "Whatever," he said, before jumping on his board and pushing off. The little dog ran along at his side, forgiveness a foregone conclusion. It never occurred to me to consider what the kid or the neighbors might think of me for yelling out my window as I followed that bloody tampon for several blocks before turning off toward home.

The Perfect Storm

So take the photographs, and still frames in your mind
Hang it on a shelf in good health and good time
Tattoos of memories and dead skin on trial
For what it's worth it was worth all the while

It's something unpredictable, but in the end it's right.
I hope you had the time of your life.

"Good Riddance" (Time of your life) by Green Day

About a year ago, our county decided to rebuild a small bridge that passes over a walking trail before emptying onto the main road to Avila Beach, where I work. The resulting detour required an additional five minutes drive time to the next exit before backtracking to the bridge's intersection with San Luis Bay Drive. That extra stretch of road took me past a wooded resort, a hot springs, the infamous Avila Barn, and this ramshackle frame of a building that seems to defy nature from every angle.

Something about the way it stood so proudly, rotting posts like crutches under the arms of a sagging roof despite its obvious near-death status, drew my gaze every time I drove past. I felt some sort of odd kinship with this freak of nature, understood on a cellular level how it feels to defy gravity; stand steadfast with feet planted firmly on one's foundation even when the rest of you leans into certain fate. I've seen it in myself many times, but mostly I've seen it in people who've drawn the short straw in life's cosmic gamble for days on earth.

Over time, the transparency of wind and sun through aging timber affected me so greatly that I finally pulled over one morning to photograph it. Later that day the spa booked a massage for a couple who were spending the man's last precious days near the ocean. He was sick, and despite all medical and spiritual methods to stop the cancer from spreading, they'd finally made peace with the inevitable. But making peace, for them, meant celebrating life rather than grieving impending death. Massages, wine-tasting, hot springs, and, as I would soon learn, laughing and smiling, were self-prescribed treatments for a man leaning into certain fate.

Ivan's smile preceded him by several yards. He was older than his wife by nearly twenty years, and there was grace in that. I like to think she'd eventually find love again. When I complimented his sweater, he offered to give it to me right then and there. I would have taken it had it not been so brisk a day and had he not been so thin and needing a sweater. We both knew what was unspoken in that offer: he was surrendering himself to our hands in exchange for an experience neither of us would take for granted.

I heard him laughing on the other side of the door where he and his wife changed into robes before being seated in the foyer. He made jokes as we soaked and scrubbed their feet and they sipped tea. The wine-tasting had made him a little silly, but I'm convinced the laughter came from a childlike place within the depths of a man who'd suddenly been freed from the constraints of societal expectations rather than the contents of a bottle. Watching him, I understood what it means to care more for one's true nature than the nature of manufactured propriety.

I found myself smiling and laughing throughout an event that could easily have been awkward and sad. Before they left the spa, Ivan turned and walked behind the counter to throw his arms around my massage partner and me, pulling the three of us into a voluptuous group hug. "I love you!" he shouted, and he meant it. As they were leaving, I  discovered he'd left behind his St. Christopher's, and raced out the front door to return it. He thanked me and winked, as the irony of a saint on a chain passed between us.

The following weekend California was hit with a major storm. It took down trees, knocked out the power, overflowed creeks, and caused mudslides up and down the coast. I railed against the wind and rain, hoeing the back yard to create a trench for the water to drain off, set plastic over the skylights on the roof, caulked around the patio doors. Despite my efforts, water seeped into my tenant's bedroom, the roof leaked, and rain found its way under the patio doors. When the power went out I was forced to stop fighting and give into the experience instead. I lit candles, listened to the wind howl through the trees, and hoped. Eventually, I found myself smiling.

Sometime during the preceding week, the bridge was completed so I took the shorter route to Avila on the day following the storm. When I arrived at the spa, one of the estheticians mentioned that the old building on Avila Drive had blown down during the night. She'd seen me photographing it on her way to work a few weeks ago, and thought I'd want to take an "after" picture. I set my camera on the front seat so I wouldn't forget on my way home, but at the last minute turned and crossed the new bridge instead. I've decided I'd rather remember the beauty of a keening barn than a pile of wood on the ground; a story in progress rather than an easy ending.

A living man's cacophony of laughter over a dead man's pithy obituary.

Away From Her

The leaves of memory seemed to make a mournful rustling in the dark. ~~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The forgetting started a couple of years ago. Names, mostly, then words--common ones--and people I know I know but can't remember how or why. They shake my hand and I smile, finding new ways to acknowledge them without letting on that our familiarity's denominator has somehow taken leave. I wonder if they're onto me, if they see the narrowing of my eyes as I scurry backward into myself, ransacking gnarled limbs of memory, searching for their names?

I now wake each morning with two questions on my lips What day is it? Where do I have to be and when? This is because worry carries itself forward from recent clashes with time and place, the fallout of memory's lack. Like the look on my face when a client arrives and I'm not expecting them because I recorded the wrong date in my planner or worse, correctly recorded it but incorrectly looked at the wrong week when I started my day.

Last night I watched, "Away From Her," a film about a man coping with the institutionalization of his wife, who is diagnosed with Alzheimer's Disease. Bridgette Bardot Julie Christie plays the patient, Fiona. See there? You see how it is, how twelve hours can flatten a name, turn it on its side, so all you recognize is the era from which it descended? That's what I'm talking about. That constant chipping of formerly sharp edges. I'm only 48. How can I be losing my memory so soon?

The movie was poignant and satisfying despite the dark topic. The characters were real, flawed people struggling to hold onto love while wishing they could forget the obstacles to that love. The wife can't remember a book her partner has read to her, but she remembers his youthful infidelities. The husband reminisces his young bride's "sweetness and irony" while in denial of her need to enter a care facility. Memory, it seems, is dampened by imagination and wishes.

When the movie ended, I immediately googled Alzheimer's and the ugly symptoms of the disease. I was relieved to discover I'm not senile, just suffering from yet another delightful side effect of menopause: forgetfulness. According to recent studies, it's not a memory issue so much as it's a problem storing (or failure to learn) new information. I want to believe the article, but some of the information I've lost isn't all that new. However, as the article points out, I am pulled in a lot more directions with a lot less capability of following them all than I was in my 20's and 30's so I can imagine my brain is a bit overloaded. Add to that the combined effect of all the other symptoms of menopause and it's no wonder my brain feels fuzzy. I have, in effect, what my friend, Sue Richards, calls "The Stupids".

It's pretty clear what needs to happen in order to make it easier for my brain to record and store information. Attending classes at our local college, for one. Getting better sleep, eating healthy foods, walking, and eliminating stress will undoubtedly help not just my brain, but my whole body function better. As I look over this list, I recognize the biggest culprit: exercise (or lack of it). So with you as my silent witness, I'm making a covenant with myself (and my dogs) to get back into a walking routine. Starting tomorrow today, we'll lace up those dusty sneakers and hit the pavement for at least 30 minutes of brisk walking. If I'm not back by sunset, somebody send a search team. I've either lost my way or, perhaps, found it again.

Con Affetto

You left me high and dry on a Sunday morning--the cruelest of cruel, knowing how much I savored our daily ritual. Sunday was always our favorite day, though, wasn't it? I'd linger a little longer in bed, drawing out the experience, sometimes sidling back to you a second time, the nectar of our earlier tryst still white on my lips; your hot body still moist with the alchemy of our special aromatic blend.

But on that fateful day you stood there in your red satin robe, flashing your left eye, silent and bereft of the steam that was the force behind our entire relationship. I did everything in my power to convince you to keep trying. I plied you with magic crystals that promised to once again propel the life-giving blood through your veins. I bathed you in soft, filtered water. I coaxed you gently with soft whispers and gentle pats on your firm bottom. When you refused my good-intentioned attempts to change your mind, I tried shaking you to your senses before turning my back and threatening to throw you on the floor.

Ah, but you knew it was all talk, didn't you? When I turned around, there you sat like a sad old man without his little blue pills looking almost as forlorn as me--your one prosthetic arm hanging like a broken antenna as you sighed one last time before tipping your black cap and leaving me to sob in the kitchen chair, parched and unsated.

Weeks dragged by. I felt the heaviness of your absence upon wakening every morning, the dull lag in my mid-afternoons lacking your timely libations.  In my frustration I tried to replace you with others but none of them were as good as you. The little Frenchie was intense, but I could see right through him, and quickly realized it as me doing all the work in our short relationship. I didn't bother to press for more. Instead I  stooped to a one-night stand with an ebony-skinned lover I picked up at Target, but he didn't perform nearly as good as he'd looked when flirting with me in the aisle between shiny blenders and the statuesque juicers. He was weak and shallow and, well,...not you.

In desperation, I called the hot line. A voice on the other end of the phone--his name was Colin--tried to persuade me to calm down. He assured me these things happen and that he'd try to help but I first had to accept the fact that sometimes when it's done it's done, used up, over. I didn't want to hear his negativity and clung instead to his promises of reuniting me with my passionate Italian. I followed every step of his instructions, lovingly touching you here and there and here again, but alas, nothing happened. Well, Colin said, there's one last thing we can try. Do you have a paper clip? I told him yes, I did indeed. I hesitated when he instructed me to shove the pointy metal into your flaccid orifice but at this point, what did we have to lose?

I'm sorry, I whispered, before closing my eyes, unable to bear the thought of certain damage to my one and only. You held still like the gentlemen that you always are and then, presto! --you came to life in my hand right there in front of Colin. In front of the cats lingering at me feet hoping for a bit of spilled milk. In front of God AKA Peet, the creator of our favorite dark elixir. I ran out the front door and into through the street, spilling the beans, "We're back together!" I shouted.  "My Baby Gaggia still loves me!"

I skipped back into the house and thanked Colon for his help before hanging up the phone. We consummated our re-commitment right there in the kitchen, you and I, and it was as good as ever--even better, I might go so far as to say, after having measured poor imitations against the real thing. Grinding, steaming, foaming, we  filled the house with the aromatic joy of two souls merging to create one perfect blend of Sumatra and Soy, light and dark, crema and cup.

I kissed the top of your head before heading back to bed to nurse the last few sips of our liquid love, feel it surge through my veins as my heart danced a little faster, my eyes opened a little wider, and my words came a little easier to uninspired fingers. I love you, Baby. Always will.

Photo Credit: Pacific Bay Coffee

Boy Howdy

Sometimes I put a cardboard box on my head and fart quietly in the corner of the room. ~~CJ, age 6

Lest you wonder if I've been in a horrible accident in which I've lost my fingers and leaving me unable to punch out a post over the previous couple of months, let it be known that my hands have merely been busy tending to this little guy, six year-old grandson and future rock star, CJ. I want to write, but every time I try to open my laptop, best intentions are interrupted by bursts of joyous enthusiasm and requests for assistance with things that people with longer legs and billfolds take for granted, such as reaching for the box of candy on top of the cupboards or buying a sticker book filed with happy faces and zoo animals.

He was delivered to me via the belly of an American Airlines jet nearly six weeks ago, where J & B picked him up at LAX. I'm told he never stopped talking from the moment he hit the tarmac until they pulled in my driveway four hours hence. And also that his feet never stopped stinking having arrived sans socks in tennis shoes that were kicked off immediately, nearly asphyxiating both driver and passenger.

At 48 I can no longer imagine being mom to a small child 24/7 and yet after making  a greater and deeper  acquaintance with this beautiful boy, I can no longer imagine what life will be like minus his presence without feeling my heart bend at the center. Over the past several weeks I've learned a lot about being a small boy, things you forget even when it's only been a dozen years since your youngest was this age, like how fun it is to snuggle in the back of a station wagon at the Drive-In Theater with Grandma and Uncle J. That falling asleep comes easier after Dr. Seuss and a back scratch. That a Spiderman t-shirt goes with everything and Power Ranger slippers serve as street shoes until you wear holes in the bottom. That spinach is yucky but catsup goes with everything. That he will expend more energy in the first hour of his day than I have on reserve for half the week.

So far we have made several trips to the library, created pottery at Anam Cre', attended a Blues baseball game, got our faces painted at Farmer's Market, found out one of us can't swim (halfway down the slide) at the pool, built sand castles at the beach, played trains with 93 year-old G while I massaged his lovely bride, eaten frozen yogurt from Bali's, and dressed up like a rock star to head bang in honor of Aerosmith who is headlining at the Mid State Fair (no, we are NOT going). We've baked brownies, drawn daily bubble baths, attended the Renaissance Faire, ridden the go-karts at Boomers,  and occasionally played a video game or watched a movie when Grandma was too pooped keep her own rules.

As I write this, CJ sleeps next to me with a Pooh blanket over his head and clutching Chow, the stuffed puppy I sent to greet him at the airport in my stead. Normally he's awake by now, but last night we stayed up to howl at the full moon over the fence in the back yard. It won't be but a few minutes, however, before he untangles himself from super-hero dreams to begin humming, something he does every day, all day, often into the night.

It drives me a bit nuts at times, that constant nonsensical sound made just for the sake of its own noise. And yet I know come next Tuesday at 10:30 in the morning, the lack of his voice will feel like a missing limb. I plan to carry that tune back home with me, pull it out of my pocket and sing joy into the cracks of these lonely walls long after the fingerprints are wiped clean.

Senior Project

Hey you with the pretty face
Welcome to the human race
A celebration, mister blue sky's up there waitin'
And today is the day we've waited for

Mr. Blue Sky, Electric Light Orchestra

People say we're more like an old couple than mother and son, the way we bicker and make up, share a million inside jokes, fight over what goes in the grocery cart. I suppose it's because he's the only male that's stuck around in my life for more than a few months or years--granted more by necessity than choice. Or maybe it's due to the fact that from the instant I first laid eyes on this kid, I understood he was as much my peer as my prodigy.

As a child, J was the kind of kid who would sit cross-legged in the middle of the basketball court during summer camp, his spectacled head absorbed in a book while the other kids danced the ball around and over him. He was the one consistently sent to the office for distracting the class with his jokes, arguing semantics with a teacher, or standing up to a bully with words that sliced as deeply as the punches landing on my son. And he's the the kind of kid you pull out of school a half-dozen times, trying unsuccessfully to find an odd-shaped hole for a many-faceted peg.

He finally graduated from high school this week, thanks to a newly-formed charter school that worked one-on-one with J to help him garner enough credits to earn a diploma. He earned most of those credits at Cuesta College, and now has a year of general ed under his belt, putting him a full year ahead of most of his counterparts. The graduation ceremony was simple, sweet, and unrehearsed. The 13 capped students chose a song to accompany their walk to the "stage" (a semi-circle of chairs on the lawn of the cohousing community). Jacob chose ELO's Mr. Blue Sky, fitting in that for graduation I'd gifted him with 20-20 vision, and it was his first public appearance sans prescriptions lens.

I know my kid loves me, but he's not quick to say so, at least not in words. His way of showing affection is to crack my back when he notices I'm "off" or to pick up an extra pack of sunflower seeds when he's at the store. So I didn't expect much more than a posed photo or an indulgent hug last Thursday. What I got is this: a fitting reward for twelve-plus long years of trying to give J the best education available. What you get today is the gift of J's graduation address, copied below. Bring your hankie, folks.

Wait...I thought I was the juggling act. No? Ok, then (retrieving speech from beneath his crokked cap).

The transition from high school onward never seemed like such a big deal to me. What’s all the fuss about? After all, our schooling isn’t complete, in fact far from it. If you were to ask me, or be forced to listen to me ramble on as you all are, I would say that our schooling ends with a toe tag. There are so many things to discover and explore on this planet--from new sources of renewable energy to unseen species of tropical insects to new planets and stars not yet seen or given a name. Whether we go on to college or find what we love in a simpler life, whether we travel abroad or deeply explore the comforts of home, we will spend the rest of our lives learning the complicated rhythms of the Earth.

So what are we really graduating from? I sat at my computer for hours, unable to write more than a sentence about my graduation (then again, the James Bond marathon on TV didn’t help). I was stumped. Finally, it dawned on me. I think graduation isn’t just a celebration of what we’ve done-- although anyone who has sat through some public school lessons that made eating glass look kind of appealing deserves a medal (and most of us have). No, nearly everyone has endured 12 years of standardized, platform-building schooling that in and of itself is good mostly for celebration that it's finally over.

The real focus of graduation, however, is the glorious recognition and anticipation of all the varied and amazing things we will do in our lifetimes, the things that we’ll learn from here on out-- be it thermonuclear physics, computer science, art, or underwater basket weaving. Raising a family, caring for loved ones, discovering the balance of work and play; from this day forward we each break free of standardized credit mongering and walk our own paths in life, building the tools that you--not the State of California--decide you need, and discovering what it is in life makes your heart sing.

Ralph Waldo Emerson once said, "To be yourself in a world that is that constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment." Then again, he also said that quotation confesses inferiority, so maybe he wasn’t the best guy to quote.

In closing, no graduation speech would be anywhere near complete without the standard thank you to a very unstandard woman. I spent what often seemed like every day of  1st -8th  grade getting my cheeky butt sent to the office, so my mother got to know a lot of secretaries very well. If it weren’t for my mother’s tireless work, I would never have received such a varied and exceptional education.

Words can’t begin to describe how thankful I am for your constant support and guidance, and the support and guidance I will no doubt require when I need to figure out how to do my taxes, or buy a house, or make pot roast, or take bubblegum out of my couch. If anyone deserves a cool little piece of paper and a nifty hat, its totally you, mom. If Mr. Emerson will allow me to quote him yet again, even if it does confess my inferiority, "Men are what their mothers make them."

At this point he ad libbed, "And now if you'll all indulge me, I've got some flowers here for my mom, and for my teacher, Amy, who put up with a long year's worth of procrastination and nincompoopery from me." Then he produced a beautiful bunch of roses for me and a bouquet of mixed flowers for Amy, and walked them to us one at a time along with warm hugs. There wasn't a dry eye on the lawn.

It was a very good day. I hope yours was, too.

Miss Understanding

To be misunderstood can be the writer's punishment for having disturbed the reader's peace. The greater the disturbance, the greater the possibility of misunderstanding. ~~Anatole Broyard

There was a time in my life when I needed to be right, would have traded my favorite toe ring, nay, my toe, for a resounding "I told you, so!" rather than let a misconception linger in another's mind. For some reason, it used to be very important to me that I made my point, disproved somebody's wrong assumptions, shed light on what longed to remain in shadowy shades of ambiguity rather than leave our backs to one another in steadfast attachment to conviction.

A few months ago I experienced one of these conflicting realities opportunities for growth and a part of me really, really wanted to convince the other person that they were wrong about me. I composed long emails in which I  proved their incorrectness, held imaginary conversations where I articulated my truth, turned a spotlight on my history so that they could see the lack of blemish on my record of good intentions. But I never sent those emails, never picked up the phone, gave up investing my energy in someone else's wrong perception of me. Frankly, it's just silly to throw away all that energy in exchange for righteous conversion.

My wasband once belonged to a group I kiddingly referred to as his Libbing Lub Kult, (it's actually called Living Love) in which the members have to memorize a long list of tenets and humiliate themselves to the degree they give into "group process" and admit they are "addicted" to some set of limiting behaviors. I'm not one for organized religion or anti-religion for that matter, and as much as I disagree with the methods of LL, one can always glean something useful from any set of principals. My take-away from this one is something they call being stuck in the g.o.o., short for Good Opinion of Others. For most of my life I was not only stuck in the goo, I'd been planted in it from the moment of conception. Growing up a preacher's kid, it's really important to set an example for others, and lord forbid anyone thought we were sinning at the Edwards parsonage let alone actually doing it.  We weren't free from sin by any means, but I did learn that it's a lot easier to be a good person than to try and cover being a bad one.

So I let it go, this need to be right--or mostly, anyway. And when he called and asked for a treatment, I said yes, and not much more. As is often the case, once I'm in massage mode Love takes over and I felt any residual resentment and frustration leave me as I did what I do. Afterwards we hugged tenderly, nearly silently. He left without the wall he'd been wearing when he arrived, and I was grateful for the opportunity to heal something without having to do it with words.

Once again, a phrase out of my father's mouth, memorized from the underlined and tattered pages of his favorite Bible that now rests on my bookshelf, comes crawling back to me. Specifically, Matthew seven, verse seven.  And you will know the truth, and the truth shall set you free. I believe there is no truth that matters more than one's own, and so long as you know it, you are free from defending it. It took a while, but having (finally) learned from past experiences,  I've decided it is far better, as they say,  to be happy than to be right.

Plus, I'm really bad at math so I need all these silly toes.

House of the Rising Sum

Everything is blooming most recklessly; if it were voices instead of colors, there would be an unbelievable shrieking into the heart of the night.~~rainer maria rilke

When my neighbor to the west strolled up the driveway I felt my shoulders edge up just a bit closer to my ears in the way they do when I worry. I wondered if she'd come over to tell me the "hood" had gotten together and decided the crazy lady across from the motorcycle guy (kitty corner from the five coeds and next to the rental owned by the famous beer company heir) had crossed the line this time. As if the eye-lashed and daisy-tailed VW beetle, the summer of the giant penis plant, and the rumored marijuana bust of 2005 weren't scary enough, now she'd gone and had her house painted in colors that belonged to San Francisco or Mexico or some other godforsaken place where dark-skinned foreigners, queers, and free-spirited hippie types live. People like the crazy lady at 270.

I was wrong. What she said was, "I really like your colors. It looks like such a happy house."

My shoulders relaxed and I curled my purple-flowered toes into the runoff from the waist-high pile of dirt in the driveway and smiled. "Really? You don't hate it? I bet Mr. B. hates it."

"No. He likes it. In fact it's pretty close to the color he'd had in mind for painting our house next year. Not quite as pink, not quite as intense, but kind of that same salmon vibe you've got going."

"It's called Hair Ribbon," I said. "The trim and awnings are Pacific Blue."

"It's inviting. Like you'd expect to walk up and find a tiny bistro in the front yard."

She glanced at the dirt pile.

"Oh, don't worry, this will disappear as soon as I finish wheelbarrowing it to the back yard. I'm pouring a patio, bit by bit." I winked at her. "Kind of how Mr. B built your deck a little at a time so the, ahem, city wouldn't get too curious."

"You've put a lot of hard work into keeping this place up."

"And a most of my earnings. Sometimes I think I should just sell and buy a condo."

Mrs. B threw her head back and laughed at the thought of me living under rules and regs of committees who wouldn't allow bright colors, wildflowers for a lawn, 4 animals, and a massage studio in the driveway. "We don't want you to move, Ellie. You're a good neighbor."

"Thanks," I said, as she wandered back toward her clean-cut beige house with beveled glass door and neatly-trimmed lawn. "So are you."

When she reached the curb she turned and nodded toward the Harley-riding neighbor across the street who hasn't painted his house in twenty years. The only saving grace is that it's several shades of chipped and cracked green, so it kind of fades into the mountain behind it.

"Don't ask D, by the way. He absolutely hates it," she said.

'Well, we're even then. These colors still aren't nearly as loud as his damn bike"

Just then, a black Jeep pulled up and dropped J off from his theatre gig at Cuesta.  He waved at our neighbor.

"Hey, Mrs. B."

He looked a me, the shovel, the wheelbarrow, and made a beeline for the house before I had a chance to ask for help with the dirt. When he reached the door he called behind him. "By the way, N says our house looks like an Andy Warhol painting."

I stood there thinking about how color is a reflection of one's emotions, how after a couple years of heartbreaking disappointments, I'd begun to bloom again. My house mirrors the happiness I've created within myself, by myself, in the months since choosing to remain un-partnered. My foundation feels stronger, my eyes like the new vinyl windows, clearer and brighter. Even my words tend to bear more load without caving in on themselves these days.

I heaved a shovel full of sand into the wheelbarrow, the blinding sun suddenly rising to mid-sky like a prom dress at the the owner's momentous reveal. Wiping my brow with the hem of my cotton skirt, I stabbed the blade into the middle of the dirt pile and headed inside for a cup of iced coffee. I fully intended to return to the task at hand, but the shovel's still there as I write this, a flagless pole celebrating nothing, waving at no one. Instead of moving dirt, I moved my fingers across mouse pad until I'd found and ordered the final touch to complete the shrieking, reckless smile on the face of my happy house.

Chasing Enlightenment

"Freedom and love go together. Love is not a reaction. If I love you because you love me, that is mere trade, a thing to be bought in the market; it is not love. To love is not to ask anything in return, not even to feel that you are giving something- and it is only such love that can know freedom." Jiddu Krishnamurti

From the moment I left the comfort of my father's religion, I began a haphazard journey toward a higher truth than what I perceived as his fault-ridden dogma. Beginning in my late twenties and ending a few years ago, I latched onto a spiritual pendulum that swung from Native American Studies to Wicca to New Age Metaphysics to Buddhism to Humanism to Earth Wisdom to Goddess Worship, gulping down words and rituals I hoped would slake my existential thirst only to end up more parched than ever.

It's not that I didn't find some truth in each of my quests for spiritual enlightenment--I did--but mostly I found a plethora of people whose walk didn't match their talk. In fact, most of the so-called gurus practiced hypocrisy through the mere existence of their self-proclaimed titles. An "old soul" will never tell you they are an old soul any more than a Wise Man needs to advertise his sagacity, because in doing so, the ego steps forward in complete contradiction to the larger truth. It's easy to regurgitate talking points, whether they be philosophical or religious. What's hard--and truly enlightened--is living those words.

The other resulting epiphany was that most of the teachings I unearthed were simply different ways to mimic Christ's teachings of love, compassion, and tolerance (or perhaps Christ mimicking others who came before him with the same message). Unlike so many self-described instruments of enlightenment who exercise habits of righteous indignation and condemnation, Christ's teachings were about acceptance. From lepers to prostitutes, he not only preached compassion, he modeled a life that embraced rather than abandoned others for their shortcomings or imperfections.

What I couldn't know when I rebelled against my religious upbringing, is that my search for truth would bring me full circle, back to words from a book I continue to reject in whole, but now embrace in essence, most specifically, The Golden Rule. Do Unto Others. Or in the verse I like better from I John 3:18, "Let us love, not in word or speech, but in truth and action." To that end I have tried (and failed and continue trying) to live a life of love with a capital L. Giving without remembering. Taking without forgetting. Forgiving without conditions.

I think Thomas Merton said it well (although I have no idea if he succeeded in living it) when he wrote, "The beginning of love is to let those we love be perfectly themselves, and not to twist them to fit our own image. Otherwise we love only the reflection of ourselves we find in them.” I have no need to see you in me. However, I do long to gaze upon the trail of your footprints as you walk your talk, do your dharma, work your plan, or whatever you want to call it rather than mire your feet on a soapbox. This daily practice of love is all I've ever needed to know.  I no longer have a desire to chase after isms in order to find the pathway to enlightenment, because this little light of mine is the truest and brightest I've ever known, and thankfully, doesn't judge its own shadow.

Photo Credit: Chapel Hill via Bill at Webshots.

Slim Pickin's

No one appreciates the very special genius of your conversation as the dog does. ~Christopher Morley

I adopted this beautiful boy when he was two. He was found wandering the streets, malnourished and starving, and placed in a foster home. I'd stopped by to pick up some craft materials from his foster mom where over a dozen cats wandered around one very nervous dog. When I sat on the sofa he jumped up beside me and slowly leaned into my shoulder. I had not planned on getting a dog, but it was love at first lean.

When I brought him home, my husband, B, was sorting through a tape of bird songs in preparation for his ornithology trip to Africa. The bony dog ran over and put two paws on B's knee. B looked at him and said, "Hiya Slim," and it stuck.

Slim used to visit with us in our bed every night until we'd say, "Time for bed." Then he'd climb onto his own pillow on the floor beside us. When B and I divorced, I tried to manage Slim in the tiny studio apartment I found for J and me, but it just didn't work. Friends N &M offered to foster him for a month until I could find a permanent home for us, but it took six months and by that time they'd become very attached to Slim and I didn't have the heart to ask for him back.

 

They've been really good to Slim and he's lucky to have had two sets of loving parents. We've all been extremely lucky to have him. He's such a beautiful, silky, boy--part greyhound/part dalmation--and used to run like the wind. But at 11 years old he has advanced lymphoma in his lungs, is incontinent, and uncomfortable. Tomorrow he'll be euthanized.

When I showed up to say my final goodbyes Slim's cancer-ravaged body was still familiar beneath my hands as I massaged him. His breathing was labored, but he rested his head in my lap as if he'd never left it. Before I left I thanked him for being such a good dog, for understanding why I had to let him go, and for bringing me so much joy during the years he lived with us. When I returned home tonight, Bella and Moxie went crazy sniffing me. I gave them each an extra treat and lots of kisses.

I'm sad for N & M, who have loved Slim so very well, taking him on trips all over the country in their motor home, letting him sleep by their bed every night. I know they're doing the humane thing, the hard thing. I'm so very grateful for their loving care of this wonderful creature. I'm so glad to have had the honor of his company for three and a half years.

I'll miss you, Slim. Time for bed, Old Man. Sleep well, our silky, beautiful boy.